Last Light(42)

“Matt, God … oh, God…”

His kiss was long and deep. His lips and tongue worked against my *; his smooth jaw caressed my thighs. Sometimes he bit down, pulling on my clit or the folds of my sex. “Good,” he whispered, licking me as I got wetter.

I tugged his hair.

With Matt, I never faked it. Matt knew what he was doing. He began to work on my clit, pushing up its soft hood and sucking at the pearl of nerves. He licked it rhythmically and my insides tightened. I pressed his mouth closer to my cunt. He moaned. Hmmm, he liked that …

But of course he liked it. He loved my pleasure, and my need turned him on.

I arched against the seat and raked a hand down his back. I bunched up his coat and shirt and rubbed the skin beneath. Now that it came to good-bye, I wanted him more than ever. This skin, this back, these slim hips and strong flanks … I clasped them hungrily, panting as my pleasure spiraled higher.

“L-let’s f*ck,” I gasped. “Fuck me…”

But I knew damn well there wasn’t room in my little car.

As I neared climax, I began to buck against Matt’s mouth, grinding my clit on his tongue. He slid several fingers into me. Over and over he stroked my G-spot. My legs trembled. I panted and writhed. I held back as long as I could, wanting Matt and my pleasure forever, and I screamed his name when he made me come.

He didn’t linger.

He cleaned me with his tongue and watched the road while I pulled on my pants. I knew he wanted to ask me to come back to the cabin. I knew if I touched his groin that I would find him half hard in his jeans. I even knew that if I tried to return the favor, he would leave sooner and in anger. That’s not how it works, he snapped at me once. It’s not a favor, when I make you come. It doesn’t mean you owe me. How can you think about it like that?

When Matt saw that I had my boots back on, he stepped out of the car.

“Next weekend, then,” he said, and he strolled into the swirling snow.





Chapter 24


MATT


I lived for the weekends, driving myself through the week by writing relentlessly. I wrote as much as five thousand words a day. I hated the writing as I always hate the writing, and I was locked together with it and without Hannah.

How are you surviving without her? Melanie’s question dogged me. Night Owl … paints a picture of obsession.

A picture of obsession.

She was right. I was addicted to Hannah.

I didn’t return Melanie’s call. I sent her a short message via the forum.

Pulling Night Owl off the net was rash—my bad. My brother is suspicious. Lay low about it and I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry. Don’t call. Hannah is here on and off. I’ll call you when I can. —M

Except I didn’t call when I could.

I began to think I should never have contacted Mel. She was another blind spot, another chink in my armor. I didn’t know her, I couldn’t predict her, and I couldn’t control her. If she decided to speak out about my existence, I wouldn’t be able to silence her.

Friday came again and Hannah came again, and my worries faded.

She pulled onto the drive at that finest time of day, when the light is melancholy. She brought me little things, writing supplies and food, and she dressed up for me. She wore makeup and perfume and painted her nails. She wore new lingerie—once a strappy La Perla slip that barely covered her nipples. She drove me mad.

We f*cked all over the cabin. I had her on the deck, against the bathroom counter, in the kitchen, on the floor, and on one very memorable occasion in the cellar. I trussed her to an empty wine rack and f*cked her until she begged to come.

And then it was Sunday again.

I rode with Hannah to the end of the road. I told myself I wouldn’t get desperate and lunge between her legs like last time.

I got desperate and lunged between her legs.

Afterward, I escaped quickly—no good-bye, just the taste of Hannah on my lips—and I climbed the road back to the cabin. Back to my self-enforced solitude.

By the second week in March, winter’s edge was gone from the air. The days lengthened and the morning sun melted the snow, though the mountains froze overnight.

We set our watches forward together.

Hannah called on Tuesday. The phone’s shrill ringtone startled me; I hadn’t heard it in weeks. I smiled and pushed away from my desk.

“Baby bird.”

“Hey.” She laughed. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know, crazy social calendar, dance card full, et cetera, et cetera. What’s up?”

“Well, I talked to Kevin.”

“Bad news?”

“Good news, actually. He said I can use the cabin all spring. He’s going straight from Miami to Brazil, spending the season with his in-laws. And we got the utilities settled.”

“Perfect.” I smiled and tilted my head. Good news didn’t explain Hannah’s careful tone. “One more season. Gives us time to think.”

“Yeah. Maybe we should think now. I’m sure Kevin will want his cabin this summer.”

“I’m not worried about it. Worst-case scenario, I stay at the condo for a while. Hiding in plain sight. That, or I could move to a hotel for a few months. When you get my inheritance—” A frown pulled at my mouth. It felt weird as f*ck to talk about my inheritance. It was a lot of money, and it was my money. To think of that small fortune slipping out of my control …